Roulette
by silverspark7x
Summary: Alfred, an adopted teenager, is falling apart in more ways than one. Most notably, he's fallen for his legal guardian, Arthur. Cold and analytical, Arthur's work at a prestigious technology firm seems to correspond with secrets about Alfred's past. UsUkUs, with moderate FrUk. M for angst, quasi-incest, and suicide. DISCONTINUED.
1. Chapter 1

"You know I love you, Arthur?"

"Of course you would be so honest and forthright about something like that," Arthur says. He doesn't look up from his journal, his entries written in his slim, perfectly spaced letters. His handwriting is so looping and old-fashioned that Alfred can't understand it.

Alfred sits down heavily, knocking his arm against the table. The table jumps, and Arthur stops writing for a moment. He waits for the table to settle before he resumes writing. Alfred sighs.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Alfred asks. "I just dropped a bombshell here, you know."

"You really didn't."

"Why not?"

"You've said that to me plenty of times before."

"But it's effective every time I say it, isn't it?" Alfred leans over and gently elbows Arthur. "Isn't it?"

Arthur scooches his chair away, out of elbowing range. He waits a moment before replying.

"It's very nice of you to say, Alfred. I appreciate it."

"Aren't you going to say it back?"

"Of course. I love you. You know that."

"But you never say it. Not if I don't say it first."

Arthur finally puts down his pen. Alfred has his chin in his hands, regarding Arthur with half-closed eyes. As Arthur watches, Alfred's arm slides down onto the table, and he rests his forehead against it, sighing.

"Is something the matter?" Arthur says.

"Everything's fine," Alfred says, lips against the crook of his elbow.

"You're acting strangely." Alfred hears Arthur push in his chair. He feels Arthur's presence behind him, as sharp and crisp as Arthur's starched white lab coat. Alfred feels Arthur's hand on his back. Alfred doesn't move.

"Are you feeling insecure again?" Arthur says, at length.

Alfred shakes him off, twisting around in his chair to look at Arthur. Arthur's head is tilted slightly to the side, considering. His eyes are clear and bright, and he unknowingly bites at his lower lip as he thinks.

Alfred scowls. "Don't say it like that!"

"Why not? It's true, isn't it?"

Alfred stands, puffing out his chest. Arthur regards him coolly.

"You can't just say something like that so casually! Is this a joke to you?" Alfred's voice rises in its anger. "God _God_ , Arthur, it's like you don't even care." Alfred shoves his chair back into place. "I'm going to get breakfast."

"I do care, Alfred. I care very much. That's why I'm asking about you." Arthur turns, trailing after Alfred as Alfred stalks off to the kitchen. "I'm worried about you."

Arthur's concern is saccharine, suffocating. Alfred's shoulders hunch. He hates the paternalism, Arthur's genuine kindness. More than that, he hates himself for being childish about it, for throwing a tantrum. Yet, he can't make himself deal with his emotions differently. They rise, shaking, frustration building like sound waves in an enclosed room.

Alfred slams the milk down on the counter. He unscrews the top with jerking motions. He doesn't look at Arthur as he pours it into a bowl, some of it spilling over the sides.

"You're not going to put the cereal in first? That's unusual," Arthur comments, his eyebrows furrowed. He sounds genuinely concerned.

"I'm not!" Alfred snaps. "I'm upset. I'm not thinking clearly."

"I still don't understand why."

"Because you're not taking me seriously!"

"I am. I am taking you seriously."

Alfred stands with his hands on the counter, his eyes filling with tears. He blinks them back, feeling ridiculous. He feels Arthur's hands on his.

"I didn't mean to upset you, love," Arthur says. "I never want to upset you. You have to understand that."

"I know," Alfred says, too choked up to turn around. "I'm being stupid. It's fine."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"You should. It's healthy to let yourself feel emotions. You shouldn't try to repress them."

Alfred lets out a harsh laugh, almost choking on his tears. "Like you're one to fucking talk."

"Don't swear."

"I'm not a child anymore."

"I'm still responsible for you."

Alfred turns to face Arthur, and Arthur steps back. Alfred feels utterly, completely crushed by the weight of his embarrassment. He hates himself. How can he ever expect Arthur to treat him like an adult when he acts like... this?

He wants to cry again.

"Do you still feel guilty?" Arthur asks, softly. "You can tell me, Alfred. It's all right."

Alfred shakes his head, not able to look Arthur in the eye. "It's just... you shouldn't have to deal with me. You're what, twenty-five? You should be focusing on your career or going back to school or... something. Not looking after a teenager."

"I'm the one who chose to adopt you, Alfred. It was my own decision."

"You shouldn't have had to make it."

"I agree." Arthur's voice is clipped. He shoulders Alfred out of the way, reaches across the counter for a paper towel. He begins to mop up the spilt milk. "Your parents shouldn't have died. You should have been living with them, happily. But they did die. And I adopted you, and there's nothing we can do about it now."

"But it's my fault!" Alfred snaps. He takes a deep breath, trying to compose himself. When he speaks, his voice is still shaky. "I didn't mean it like that. Of course I didn't have anything to do with them dying. But... you adopted me because you knew them. Out of guilt. Just because they were family friends. I mean, how is that fair to you?"

"It was more than that." Arthur brushes aside Alfred's bangs, combing them with his fingers. He leans back on his heels, smiling an indulgent little smile. "When I met you in the agency, Alfred, I knew. I knew you were someone I wanted to take care of. The fact that I knew your parents... that's only what brought us together. I would have adopted you anyway."

"Oh God, don't talk like that."

"Like what, Alfred?"

"Like..." Alfred pushes up his glasses, then presses the heel of his palm into his eyes. "Like I mean something to you. Like I'm special to you. It kills me."

"But you are. You are something special to me." Arthur straightens the pens in the pocket of his lab coat. "I care about you. Very much."

"You really don't understand, do you?"

"Understand what?"

Alfred shakes his head. "Never mind," he says, his voice caught in his throat.

Arthur waits a moment, for him to elaborate. When Alfred doesn't, he reaches into the pantry, hands Alfred a box of cereal.

"Eat up," Arthur says. "You have a track meet today. You want to have strength for it, don't you?"

"Quit nagging me," Alfred says, but there's no bite to his words. He's relieved their conversation has turned away from his previous blunders.

They walk back into the dining room, and they sit. Arthur returns to writing, his cold buttered toast off to the side. Alfred's loud, crunchy chewing fills the kitchen.

* * *

They are alone in the elevator.

It is not coincidental. It is orchestrated.

"Bonjour, _mon cher_ ," Francis says. "What a coincidence to see you at-" Francis pretends to check his watch. "Seven thirty-six."

"A coincidence indeed, my good sir," Arthur says dryly. He watches the neon numbers of the floor light up on the keypad. They still have a long way to go.

Francis leans against the wall of the elevator, his black suit dapper and fitted, more appropriate for a talk-show host than for a world-renowned scientist.

"How is Alfred?" Francis asks.

"Same old, same old."

"Still upset?"

"As always."

"I don't mean to talk out of turn, _mon cher_ , but perhaps you should reconsider your strategy."

"And give you a chance at winning? Hardly."

"This technology is still new. You shouldn't push things."

The elevator dings. Arthur makes a move to exit, but Francis grabs his arm. Francis pushes the elevator for the basement, and the elevator begins to sink.

"I'm going to be late," Arthur says.

"I don't care."

"People are going to get suspicious."

"I want to talk to you."

"Come to my house after work."

Francis pulls Arthur close against his chest. He kisses Arthur's neck.

"Not now," Arthur says. "You're going to mess up my coat."

He jerks Francis off, straightens his clothing.

Francis sighs. "I would go to your house, _chérie_ , but Alfred hates me."

"Why does that matter? It's not like he'll do anything to you."

"I don't like being around him." Francis scowls. "It's wrong. What you've done to him."

"Not this again."

"He's pathetic, Arthur. Can't you realize that? Acting like a regular high-school student. He's a caricature. It's painful to watch."

The elevator dings again. Arthur pushes the button to his floor before Francis can make a move.

"You have to reconsider," Francis continues. "You've done more than enough, Arthur. You can stop now."

"It's too late to go back."

"I know, Arthur. But you have good results. You can turn them in."

Arthur's hands tighten into fists. He flinches from the pain of his recently-cut fingernails digging into his palm.

"No," he says.

"Don't tell me you want to secure a victory?" Francis sighs. "You know they just pitted us against each other because they wanted to make sure we got good results. And it doesn't matter which one of us is better. You'll still go down in history."

"You're confident you're going to win, aren't you? You want me to throw Alfred to those scientists prematurely. But I won't. He's not ready."

"You're a perfectionist, Arthur. He's as good as he's going to get." Francis pauses. "Unless it's more than that. Unless you're too attached."

Arthur doesn't respond.

"They never should have allowed this," Francis says, his lip pulled up in derision. "Your emotions are getting the better of you. And I never thought I'd say that."

"I'm sleeping with you, aren't I? Maybe you swept me off my feet. Ruined my analytical sensibilities." Arthur tilts his head. "That's what other people would think, if they found out. They would think I fell for you. That I'm a fool."

"I wish, _chérie_. But even my ego isn't big enough to believe that." Francis regards him, thoughtfully. "I still don't understand why you're with me. Is it the intrigue, the novelty? With the whole world watching, and we're fucking behind their back? Somehow, I think you like that. Always going for the unexpected, that's my Arthur." Francis falls silent. He watches the numbers on the keypad lights up as the elevator ascends. "But you're not mine, are you? You're not anyone's. I feel like every day with you is a dream. Like you're just some cosmic joke. Some twisted part of my subconscious. Every day, when I wake up, I'm afraid you'll be gone. Do you know what that feels like?"

The elevator dings, and the doors open with a smooth, automatic movement.

Arthur steps out without saying a word.

* * *

 **A/N: So, this is just a little chapter of a pretty ambitious story. This is definitely an impulse upload: it's currently 2:28 am, and I have pretty much no idea how to write fanfiction. I can't make any promises, but I'm going to give this story a shot! I'm having a lot of fun with these characterizations.**


	2. Chapter 2

Alfred comes home at two in the morning. Arthur is waiting for him.

Arthur looks up from the printer, where he is scanning in the thin, ink-soaked pages of his journal. Every night he uploads them to a database on his computer.

"You're home early," Arthur says.

Alfred blinks in the eerie blue-white light of the printer. Apart from that, the room is entirely dark.

"Mmm. You're… why are you bein' sarcastic?"

"I assure you, I'm not. Last time you came home late, it was at four in the morning."

"You're not mad," Alfred says, swaying. His eyes are bloodshot.

Arthur takes his journal from the scanner, closes it carefully, passing a hand over the leather cover. He tucks it under his arm, regarding Alfred. Alfred often comes home tipsy, but never this slammed.

"Did you lose race?" Arthur asks. When Alfred doesn't respond, Arthur prompts, "The track meet?"

"You din' answer my question."

"What question?"

"Why aren' you mad?"

"You never asked me that."

"Yes, I did."

"Not in as many words, at any rate." Arthur sighs. "Please tell me someone else drove you home. You're in no condition to drive."

"Yes," Alfred says. He blunders forwards, places his hands on Arthur's shoulders. "I did. I ask'd you."

Arthur turns his heads, wincing at the faint scent of sour beer. Not even the good stuff.

"Perhaps you did. If not directly, then by sentiment." Alfred's breath is hot and humid on Arthur's face. His hands are heavy on Arthur's shoulder. "I don't see why I should be angry. You have a right to live your life."

"Yur supposted to be looking after me. Make me responsible."

"Do you want me to be angry?"

"No. 'Course not." Alfred's hands drop. He wrings his fingers. "I just… are you tryin' to be cool? Like, the cool older brother?" Alfred laughs, and it sounds contorted, wet and hacking. "My parents never wouda let this slide." Alfred brushes his sweat-soaked bangs out of his face with unsteady hands. "Funny, isn' it? I barely remember 'em."

"They died a long time ago."

"That's the thing. They didn." Alfred's eyes are wide, shot through with electricity. "They died when I was fourteen. And that was three years ago. Now I'm… I'm… how old m'I again?"

"Seventeen," Arthur says, looking down at the ground. His shoulders tense. He raises his head, meets Alfred's gaze, trying not to make his realization apparent. Arthur continues. "Maybe you just didn't have much of a need to remember those times. Maybe you blocked out those memories because they were painful."

"Sounds like Hollywood. Too convenien'."

"Well, psychology is complicated. Maybe there's some truth to it."

"But yur always the one who complains about those movies."

"Perhaps I'm a killjoy." Arthur smirks. "Well, Mr. Amnesiac, what kind of movie are you playing in? A drama? A comedy? If you're a Hollywood action hero, then you can be anything you want to be."

"I don't care," Alfred says, suddenly. "I don't care about them. I can't remember if I ever loved them. My own _parents._ "

"They weren't particularly good to you."

"You were friends with them, weren't you? Tell me, Arthur." Alfred makes as if to grab Arthur by the arms, but his hands are shaking. He holds them hovering in the air until he draws them back against his chest. "Am I a terrible person? For not feeling anything for them?"

"It's not that you don't feel anything. It's just that you don't remember anything."

"And why do you think that is?" Alfred snaps, balling his hands into fists. "You don't think I made the choice to forget, somewhere along the line? Because Arthur, I'm… I'm glad they died. Because that means I got to meet you." Alfred's voice cracks. "Oh God, how horrible is that?"

Arthur circles around him, considering. His drunkenness is a charade, surely; Alfred has forgotten to slur his words, and returned to his normal speaking patterns. Yet Arthur can't rule out the possibility of him being at least slightly tipsy. And his eyes are so red, he could be high on something else. Or he had just been crying.

"You have a big heart, Alfred," Arthur says, softly. "But it isn't possible to love everyone. Not everyone you meet can mean something to you." Arthur smiles. "I mean something to you, don't I? So you aren't cruel, or apathetic, or any of those things."

"But you still remember your brother, don't you?" Alfred's voice is cold. His lip curls up in disdain.

He steps towards Arthur, chin held high, eyes almost neon-blue in the light. Arthur walks backwards, his steps small and jerking. He feels something pressing at the roof of his mouth when faced with Alfred's large, determined form.

"You still think of him, sometimes," Alfred continues. "Stretched out in the emergency room. His stomach full of pills. You think about him and you're sad, because you're a better person than me."

Arthur shakes his head. "That's not true, Alfred."

"What, you don't think about him?"

"No, I do."

"Then what isn't true."

"I'm not a better person than you."

Alfred places two fingers under Arthur's chin, lifting Arthur's face to meet his eyes.

"You are," Alfred says. "I know you are." He lightly wraps his hand around Arthur's throat, fingertips resting against Arthur's carotid artery to feel Arthur's heartbeat. Alfred closes his eyes, and when he speaks, his words are full and heavy, as if speaking through a mouthful of water. "What would you do if I told you I wanted to kiss you?"

"I would tell you to go to bed. You're drunk."

They both know he isn't drunk.

Alfred steps back, releasing Arthur's throat. His gaze is focused and intense, tracing Arthur's outline the way one would chisel an image into stone.

"Good night, Alfred," Arthur says.

Arthur watches Alfred leave, Alfred's footsteps heavy and domineering in their cold, quiet apartment. Once Alfred is safely out of sight, Arthur realizes he's shaking.

* * *

"He's asking too many questions."

Francis lifts his head from the pillow, his hair sticking up. He blinks, languid when compared to Arthur's crisp, anxious movements.

Arthur closes the door to the bedroom and flips on the lights. He begins to pace, his form angular and sharp in the harsh fluorescent light.

" _Mon cher_ ," Francis says, "Did you really stay up waiting for him to come home?"

Arthur's eyes flicker over to him, then go back to scanning the room. "No. You know I stay up late anyways."

Francis sits up and sighs. "What kind of questions is he asking?"

"About his past. His memories. You know I don't have answers for those."

"And who do you have to blame for that?"

Arthur grits his teeth, taking in a sharp intake of break. "I did the best I could."

"And it wasn't enough." Francis' hand twitches, and he imagines placing it over Arthur's; but he knows better. In this tense state, Arthur would just lash out. "This whole operation was doomed from the start."

"I swear to fucking God, if you say that to me one more time, I'm going to kill you."

Francis leans back against the headboard. He waits, silent.

At length, Francis says, "You know I'm only trying to help by telling you to give up on him. I'm not trying to cut your career short. I respect you too much for that."

"I know that, Francis." Arthur lies back onto the bed. He reaches for Francis' hands, interlacing their fingers. Arthur sighs. "What about you?"

"I'm not trying to do what you're doing. I don't have anything to worry about in terms of morality."

"That's a fair point." Arthur pauses, rests his head in the crook of Francis' neck. "I think he's in love with me, you know."

"Don't you think that's a bit messed up?"

"He's just confused."

"I wouldn't be so sure." Francis watches Arthur's ash-blonde lashes flutter, delicate as butterfly wings. "There's a lot about you to love."

"He thinks I'm a good person," Arthur says, at length. "What have I ever done to convince him of that?" Arthur leans away from Francis, draws his hand back to his side. "Perhaps he's a manifestation of my arrogance."

"Perhaps you should tell him the truth."

"Hah. You say that like it's so easy."

"Would it really be so hard to let go of him?"

"You wouldn't understand, Francis. I've dedicated my life to him. My career." Arthur exhales heavily. "Though, perhaps you do understand. You know what it's like to be fascinated by people. Wanting to understand them. To help them." Arthur tilts his head back, accentuating the curve of his Adam's apple. "That's why you sleep with so many people, isn't it?"

Francis winces. "I just like having a good time."

"It's not so simple." Arthur pauses. "You wish it were, don't you?"

"What I do is boring," Francis says. "I listen to people, I hit on them, I sleep with them, and I use them. Where's the fun in that?"

"You love them."

"Sometimes."

"You care about them."

"Always."

"And despite all this, it's never enough." Arthur spares him a pitying, condescending look. "Maybe it's because you're fake, Francis. Your white picket fence and ironed suit and stable job. You draw them in with a fancy career and a chance at the American dream, but that's not really what you want, is it?"

"What do I want?"

"You want me."

"There's your arrogance again."

"Because I'm someone you want to save. Someone you want to fix." Arthur looks down at his fingernails. Cut so close to the skin they're almost bleeding. "But you see, Francis, if I were capable of loving you back, then I wouldn't be a monster. Then you wouldn't want to help me." He pauses. "You only want what you can't have."

"Like Alfred."

"Yes. Like Alfred."

Arthur lies back onto the pillow, drawing the blankets up to his chin. His breathing is slow and rhythmic even as his eyes stare up at the ceiling, blinded by lights.

Francis stands, flips the off switch. Arthur doesn't move, and his eyes glow silver-green in the dim moonlight coming through the open window of his bedroom.

* * *

Arthur leaves early for work the next day. Francis barely has time to say goodbye before he's out the door.

Francis sits down at the kitchen table with an omelet of ham and cheese. He likes to cook a big breakfast for himself and Arthur, and did so out of habit; still, with Arthur gone, the idea of eating it alone is almost too depressing to bear.

He feels ill at ease in Arthur's varnished, sterile apartment. The long dining-room table is dark and oval-shaped, the edges slightly curved upwards. Abstract shapes of colors hang on the wall, vibrant against white canvases. In the background, he hears the humming of stainless-steel appliances. Idly twirling his fork in his hand, Francis is reminded of why he doesn't much like going to Arthur's apartment.

Alfred descends from the top of the staircase, his hair turned chestnut-dark from his shower.

"Where's Arthur?" Alfred asks.

Francis looks up from his heaping plate of food. "Arthur already left."

"Really? I got up especially early just to say goodbye." Alfred gives an exaggerated yawn. "He should still be here. Normally, he leaves around six twenty-five, and it's six-fifteen." Alfred sits heavily at the kitchen table. "You must have done something to make him mad."

"Maybe that was your fault, _mon pou._ "

"What does that mean?"

"It means flea. It's an expression of endearment."

"Yeah," Alfred says, sarcastically. "I'm sure it is." He puts his feet up on the table and stretches. He's wearing plain white socks; so Arthur bought them for him. Alfred finishes stretching, stares morosely over the table.

"Eat." Francis gestures to his plate. "I made too much."

Alfred wrinkles his nose. "Gross. I'm not eating from your plate."

"The assumption, _mon chou_ , is that you would go get another plate from the kitchen." Francis sighs. "Besides, I haven't started eating yet."

"That was supposed to be for Arthur, wasn't it?" Alfred swings his feet down, then rests his chin on his hands. He stares at Francis down the length of the table. "Except Arthur hates tomatoes. You would know that if you knew anything about him."

"Does he, now?" Francis' voice is tired, distant. "And how do you know?"

"He told me."

"Really?"

"Really."

Francis snorts. "I can't imagine Arthur ever brining up something as inconsequential as that."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

Francis resists the urge to sigh or roll his eyes. He wishes he hadn't gotten involved in this childish melodrama. He feels a mix of pity and scorn for Alfred, for his possessiveness, for his need to make up stories that are most likely lies.

Francis stands from the table. He takes his coat from where he hung it on the back of his chair, and begins buttoning it up.

"You're just going to leave?" Alfred asks. "Without even finishing up your breakfast?"

"Do what you want with it. I'm not hungry."

"That's pretty wasteful, don't you think?"

Francis finishes buttoning his coat. He gathers up his long, silky-blonde hair, smooths it over his collar.

"I had a long night, Alfred. I'm not in the mood for this."

"Well, I'm never in the mood for you," Alfred says, his voice pleasant, his teeth bared. At Francis' retreating back, he calls: "Be careful out there, Francis. The weather's getting colder, and I wouldn't want you to freeze your balls off."

* * *

 **A/N: I realize the first few chapters have had a lot of Francis. He is a pretty substantial character, but the main focus will be on Alfred and Arthur, don't worry! Also, "pou" (flea) is actually an endearing nickname in French, as is "chou" (cabbage). Yeah, French is weird.**

 **Also, it looks like Saturday's going to be my weekly upload schedule (?), at least for the time being!**


	3. Chapter 3

Alfred stretches his arm across his chest, shivering. He knows he'll warm up as soon as he starts running, but he can't skip stretches, or else coach Braginski will be mad.

"What are you making faces about?" Antonio asks, at his side. Antonio's breath puffs out from in front of him as he jumps from side-to-side.

"It's fucking cold," Alfred says.

Antonia stops moving. "Oh. Is everything okay?"

"What, am I not allowed to complain about the weather?"

Antonio's eyes are wide and warm, filled with concern. "You sound really annoyed."

"No, really, I hate the cold."

"Is there something else that's going on?"

"Seriously, Antonio, I'm fine."

"Oh, okay." Antonio begins his agility warm-ups again. A few moments later, he says, "It's not because I'm captain, is it? You're not intimidated or anything?"

"Antonio, stop," Alfred says, stretching out his leg. "We've been classmates for years. Of course I'm not intimidated."

'Well, I mean, I feel like I haven't talked to you as much lately."

"I've been busy."

"A lot on your mind?"

"I guess."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, Antonio. God."

Antonio shifts to the side, obviously giving Alfred some space. Alfred says. Already, he's beginning to feel like shit for having been so rude to his friend.

"Fine," Alfred says. "Things have been weird with Arthur, I guess. It's screwing me up a little bit."

"Arthur? Your brother?"

"My _legal guardian._ "

"Weird how?"

Alfred pauses. He stops moving without realizing, and stands in the track field with his hands on his hips.

"I don't know. I don't like the gu- the person Arthur's dating. I don't think they're good for each other, and Arthur doesn't seem to care."

"Hmmm. What makes you think that?"

"It's kind of hard to explain."

"Explain what, Mr. Jones?"

Alfred realizes with a start that coach Braginski is standing in front of him. Braginski has a black whistle around his neck and wears a white muscle shirt despite the bitter fall wind, as if to show off his ability to withstand the cold, and scorn his students for not doing the same.

"Will you, perhaps, explain why you aren't doing your warmups?" Braginski looks Alfred up and down, a slight sneer on his face. "I don't think I should have to remind you we're in the middle of competition season. Should be pretty clear, da? We had a meet last week and we have another one this week." Braginski tilts his head. "A meet you couldn't participate in because you didn't bring in your green form."

 _Green form_. A blush rises to Alfred's cheeks. The form was essentially an okay from the school nurse saying that he was fit enough to participate in track. He had been supposed to bring it in at the beginning of the season, but kept forgetting.

"I have to go to the doctor's," Alfred mumbles. "The nurse can't sign off on it until I get an updated physical."

"You should get to it, _da?_ Unless you don't want to participate in this meet either."

"Do I really need to bring it?"

"You do. We can't have you dying on the field from a medical condition, _da?_ " Braginski's smile is placid and tight-lipped, but Alfred imagines that his teeth are as sharp as a shark's. "You need to have all the necessary forms if you want to complete."

"Fine," Alfred mutters.

Braginski stands there, and Alfred realizes he's standing still. He begins doing his warm-ups again, staring stonily at Braginski's retreating back.

* * *

"Why are you so stressed out?" Alfred smiles, feeling especially confidant in his dark blue track sweatshirt and svelte black t-shirt. "It's just a checkup."

"Do you think I'm stressed?"

Alfred scans Arthur's form, sitting tight and taught on the comfortable plush chairs. Arthur's black shoes tap the floor with a jerking, mechanical precision. His journal small enough to be tucked into the pocket of his lab coat; he can't even think of writing in it.

"You always get like this when I go to the doctor's," Alfred says. "I don't get it. I mean, you work in a lab all day, don't you?"

"Not exactly. I work with technology."

"Then the lab coat is just for show?"

Arthur shrugs. His shoulders are thin and narrow.

"They don't really care what we wear," he says. "Francis wears a suit."

"Hah. You'd think they'd give you uniforms." At Arthur's blank expression, Alfred continues with, "You know, for uniformity and precision and all that."

"No," Arthur says, his voice soft and vague. "They quite encourage creativity, actually."

There's an awkward silence. Alfred glances at Arthur, taking in the slight scowl on his face, the glint of his teeth as he grits them into a grimace.

"You know," Alfred says, his tone unnaturally light and conversational, "I don't even know what you do for work."

"It's complicated."

"I can follow it."

"I've already explained it to you."

"I don't remember."

"Well, then you must not have understood it."

Alfred pulls his jacket closer around himself. "Then explain it to me again."

Arthur doesn't respond. His breathing is short, caught inside his chest.

Alfred leans forwards. "Arthur?"

Arthur closes his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is stilted.

"I'm fine, Alfred. I'm _fine_."

"You look pale." Alfred reaches a hand forward, pushes up Arthur's hair, feels his forehead. His skin is cool and dry underneath Alfred's hand. "Maybe you're sick."

"Well, good thing we're in a doctor's office, then."

"Alfred Jones," a nurse calls.

"Yes, that's us," Arthur says, standing up as if he had been sprung from a box. He casts a look over his shoulder. "Come along, Alfred."

Alfred and Arthur make to step into the offices, but the attendant holds out her hand. She has long, ice-blonde hair with a black ribbon.

"Who are you?" she says, addressing Arthur.

Arthur starts. "I-I'm Arthur Kirkland. I'm his legal guardian."

"I'm going to need some proof of that."

"It should be on the file."

She flips through the papers on her clipboard. "Yes. That's right. Thank you, Mr. Kirkland."

They begin walking forwards again, but the nurse stops. Alfred almost crashes into her.

"You don't have to come with us," she says, looking at Arthur.

Arthur pauses. "Well, he's still under eighteen-"

"We already have your consent. Besides, it's just a checkup."

"Well," Arthur tries again, "We haven't been here in years, and I just thought-"

"And why is that?" The nurse purses her lips. "They're supposed to be _yearly_ checkups, Mr. Kirkland."

"Look, we're just here because I need an updated green form. For track." Alfred says, lamely. "Arthur- I mean, I don't really like going to the doctor's. And I'm never sick. I'm like, super healthy. So I didn't think I had to go."

"You've never gotten sick?" The nurse rolls her eyes. "Never mind."

She begins walking again. Catching up to her, Alfred says, "No, really, I'm in perfect health."

"I find that hard to believe."

"I swear it."

She stops in front of an examination room. "Step inside here, please."

They step inside, Arthur trailing inside. The nurse makes as if to say something, but decides against it.

"Wait here," she says. "A doctor will be here shortly."

When she closes the door, the sound is metallic and final. It settles in the room; combined with Arthur's nervous adjustments of his hair and clothes, the atmosphere feels tangible enough to taste.

Alfred sits on the exam table, the blue rubber thick and spongy beneath his hands. As Arthur sits in the guest chair, Alfred's eyes roam the posters and pamphlets on the wall behind Arthur's head. Their edges are blurry, leaking color; he squints, trying to make them clearer.

"Are you all right?" Arthur asks. "Do you have something in your eye?"

"No, I'm fine. I just can't read the poster behind your head." Alfred points. "I mean, I can see the beer glass, and I guess it's probably about, like, the dangers of drunk driving or something, but I can't read the text."

"You can't?" Arthur cranes up his neck, reading the posters at an angle. "You're not that far away."

"It says something like… 38 people die… or is it drive?"

"27 people die of drunk driving accidents a day," Arthur reads, clearly pronouncing each word. He blinks, confused. "Can you really not see?"

"I guess so." Alfred pulls at his sweatshirt. "I can't read the board, sometimes, at school. My science teacher said might need glasses."

"That's impossible." Arthur's voice is flat. His eyes are glassy, opaque. Alfred can't read his expression.

Alfred blinks. "I mean, not really? A lot of people I know wear glasses. I guess it's weird it just started now. Most of my friends who have glasses already got them-"

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

Arthur's voice has risen. Still, his body remains almost eerily immobile.

"I was going to," Alfred says, stumbling over his words. "I just kept forgetting. I don't know. It didn't seem important."

"Of course it's important. It's your _health_ , Alfred."

Alfred slides off the examination table. He approaches Arthur, takes Arthur's hands in his. When he pulls Arthur up, Arthur's hands are bony and shake slightly in his palms.

"Hey," Alfred says, "It okay. It's just my eyesight. It's not a big deal."

"I'm not upset."

"Like hell you are." Alfred slides his hands away from Arthur's, places them on Arthur's shoulders instead. "What's going on?"

"I just wish you would have told me. That's all."

"It's got to be more than that."

"It's not. Honestly." Arthur smiles, one side of his mouth pulling higher than the other. "Hospitals make me a little nervous. It's nothing to worry about it."

"Oh God," Alfred says, his voice hushed. A mental image flashes in his mind; Arthur in a hospital bed, holding his brother's hand. The stomach pump (Alfred has never seen one – he can't quite visualize it) whirling in the distance. And then the cold, final beep of the flatline. "Oh God, Arthur, I'm so sorry."

"What?"

Alfred pulls Arthur into a hug. He hears Arthur's sharp, surprised intake of breath.

"Your brother," Alfred says. "He died in a hospital like this, didn't he? No wonder you're worried."

Alfred feels Arthur's shoulder-blades beneath his hands, tense and pushed close together. Arthur breathes out, relaxing slightly. He rests his chin on Alfred's shoulder.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Alfred asks, softly. "You could have told me."

"I didn't want to trouble you."

"Of course not, Arthur. Of course not. I want to know these sorts of things. I want to know about you."

Arthur shifts, stepping away from the hug. Alfred's hands drop back to his side, and they seem useless and bloated.

"That came out wrong," Alfred says. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pressure you. But you know you can talk to me? If you want to."

"I know, Alfred. Thank you."

Alfred sits down on the examination table, heavily. "Jesus, Arthur, if I'd known-"

"There's no way you could have made that connection." Arthur smiles a rueful smile that looks almost sardonic in the flat hospital lighting. "I'm surprised you even remembered my brother."

"Your little brother who killed himself? Of course I remember."

And he does. Alfred had been younger, then, pestering Arthur about his family. Eventually, Arthur had turned to him and said, "I had a family, until my little brother killed himself. It completely split apart the rest of us, and I never spoke to my family again. Now, hush. Eat your soup." Alfred had been confused with Arthur's clinical tone, the borderline-mocking bite in his words. Now, Alfred wonders if it was Arthur's inability to talk about these kinds of things that made the situation who feels unnatural.

"I mentioned him offhandedly." Arthur sighs, cracks his neck. "I shouldn't have. It was too much responsibility to place on you."

"I was fourteen. I wasn't a child."

"Still. I regret telling you about him, sometimes."

Alfred reaches out a hand, and Arthur steps towards him. Alfred takes Arthur's hand in his and squeezes him, lightly.

"Why?" Alfred says. "Do you think I'll end up like him?"

Arthur winces.

Alfred pulls lightly on Arthur's arm, and Arthur sits beside him.

"You know I wouldn't do something like that." Alfred's voice is hushed. "You know I would never hurt you like that."

"I know that, sweetheart."

"Then there's no reason for you to be worried, is there?"

Alfred gently squeezes Arthur's hand. Arthur leans against Arthur's large frame.

They sit there in a shared, comfortable silence, quiet enough that Alfred can almost swear he hears Arthur's heartbeat. When the doctor comes, and Arthur leaves the room, Alfred feels the phantom afterimage of Arthur's fingers interlaced with his.

* * *

 **A/N: This is turning out to be more of a mystery story than I expected, haha. I definitely want to take my time to develop the relationships and make sure everything comes together.**

 **Also, I used to have song lyrics before each chapter, but apparently that's against 's terms of service. Whelp. If you're curious, the songs I've used so far inspiration include "Strange Love" by Halsey, "Honest" by the Neighborhood, and "All We Do" by Oh Wonder.**

 **Thanks to those who haves stuck around! I appreciate your reviews. I'd be especially curious to hear where you think this story is going, as well as if you have any suggestions :)**


	4. Chapter 4

I posted at kind of a weird time last week (around 1 in the afternoon), so if you're used to reading at night, you may have missed chapter 3. Also, I'm posting especially late tonight because I was celebrating Christmas. Happy holidays to you guys!

* * *

Alfred wakes up the next morning with a headache. He lifts his heavy skull from the pillow, blinking, feeling vaguely as if he were forgetting a very important dream. Something about an alien abduction, maybe. With cold metal instruments and blinding lights.

He doesn't realize what's different right away. He lies in bed for a couple minutes, staring at the cracks on the ceiling. Had they been there before? They look small and thin, delicate as a spider-web.

He notices the gray edges of the matte white carpet, the grains of wood on the banister of the stairs. Arthur is sitting at the breakfast table, drinking tea, when Alfred comes downstairs. The strands of his wheat-blonde hair are crisp and saturated in the chilled sunlight. Alfred realizes he can see the individual strands, flying away from Arthur's face.

"Good morning," Arthur says. His journal is tucked beneath his arm.

"Hi," Alfred says. He sits down at the breakfast table, waiting for Arthur to look up. When Arthur doesn't, Alfred says, "I think my eyesight is fine again."

"Oh?"

"I woke up this morning, and it was no longer blurry."

"That's strange," Arthur says. His eyes flick up to meet Alfred's.

"Yeah," Alfred continues. "I hadn't realized how bad it was. I'm glad it's fine again."

"I wonder how that happens." Arthur taps his pen thoughtfully against his lips. "Maybe it was temporary insanity on your part."

"Ha. Ha." Alfred yawns. "Insane or not, I still have to go to school. Which means I have to wake up. Which means I have to drink coffee. Do we have any coffee?"

"Certainly. I bought some yesterday. We were out." Arthur takes an obvious sip of his tea. "Though, I still think you should switch over to tea. You're an athlete. All this caffeine isn't good for your system."

Alfred wrinkles his nose. "Yeah, right. See, I drink one cup of coffee per day, which is way less caffeine than your five cups of tea."

"Four. My average is four."

"See, I think you're just trying to get me to switch over to your _presumptuous_ British drink."

"Oh, _presumptuous_. I'm surprised you know that word. Is it a vocab word for English?"

Alfred stalls. "Why don't you think I just know what it means?"

"Because you never read, Alfred. Your vocabulary is as advanced as a fifth grader's."

"Well-"

"It _is_ a vocabulary word, isn't it?"

Alfred doesn't respond.

"I thought so," Arthur says, smugly taking another sip of his tea.

"You're such a jerk," Alfred says, but he doesn't mean it.

Arthur just smiles over the rim of his cup. They eat their breakfast in a companiable silence, and soon, Arthur begins to write again, his letters smooth and looping.

"You have another track meet this morning, don't you?" Arthur asks, not looking up.

"Mmm. I do." Alfred sighs, stretches his arm above his head, his bones cracking.

"You have your green form, don't you?"

"Yes, _mom_."

"Don't be like that. You know I have to ask. If your head weren't attached to your shoulders, you would surely lose it."

It's these things he lives for. The little moments. Their shared, [whatever the fuck] silence; the contraction of Arthur's throat muscles as he swallows a mouthful of tea. Still, Alfred remembers what it felt like to feel Arthur's skin beneath his hand, warm and soft and trembling. That night, a few weeks ago, where Alfred had wrapped his hand around his throat.

Alfred looks at his fingers, face-up on the table. They curl inwards, delicately, as if they would like nothing more than to find their way around Arthur's throat, or rest on his waist, or wrap themselves in his hair.

He is terrified.

He is terrified of ruining this.

"What are you thinking about?" Arthur asks.

Alfred wants to say, _I'm thinking about how much I love you_ , but the words die in his throat.

* * *

That night, the house is still. The shadows are flat and metallic, almost cold to the touch.

Alfred shivers. He isn't afraid of monsters or demons or the trees knocking against his window-pane; Arthur has scared those monsters away, long ago, with all his talk of science and the lack of evidence in the supernatural. No, Alfred fears the lack of something: the lack of Arthur's presence.

He fills out his math worksheet, the numbers filling up the page, separate from himself, as if coming from his disembodied hand. Normally, putting numbers into boxes makes him feel like he has some kind of control. He feels closest to Arthur, sometimes, when he does math; he feels as if Arthur sees the world as an infinite amount of numbers to organize, to manipulate, to turn into equations and find solutions. Alfred can't see the entire world that way, but he tells himself that at least now, as he's doing this stupid worksheet, he understands at least a part of Arthur.

He closes his eyes, tipping his head back. His hand continues writing numbers of its own accord. He pictures Arthur in his mind's eye. Arthur, who is always coiled as tight as an iron spring; Arthur, who watches with the haughty elegance of a cat with glowing eyes.

He imagines Arthur taking off his lab coat, folding it over the chair. Looking at Alfred with a vulnerable, pleading expression. Unbuttoning the top of his collared shirt, his slim fingers hesitant and delicate. And he imagines Arthur saying, his voice soft and caring and scared, " _Darling, love, sweetheart, I love you_." Not the way he usually says it: as a response, as a confirmation of friendship and platonic intimacy. Really meaning it, this time.

And Alfred images Arthur stepping towards him, arms outstretched-

Like that would never happen.

Alfred takes in a deep, hissing breath of air. His eyes snap open, and his imagination fades when faced with the fluorescent lights of his bedroom. He suddenly hates the beige-brown carpet and heaps of dirty laundry; he suddenly wants to tear the room to shreds, the wadded-up tissues he didn't bother to throw away, the empty soda bottles clogging his desk. He tries to reach the image he had before, but it has shattered when faced with the harsh reality of his ugly bedroom.

Alfred looks down at his paper. He realizes he has been writing the number 2, 2, 2, over and over again.

He puts his head on his desk, the paper crinkling under his chin. "What the fuck is wrong with me," he says. And he begins knocking his head, gently, against the wood. "What." _Thump_ "The." _Thump_ "Fuck" _Thump_ "is" _Thump_ "Wrong" _Thump_ "With" _Thump_ "Me."

"Arthur is my guardian, for fuck's sake," he says, his voice muffled by paper and wood. "And he's twenty-five."

 _And I don't care._

 _I want him anyway_.

Alfred lifts his head from the desk. His eyes are red.

Arthur comes home sometime so late at night that it's early in the morning. When Alfred goes downstairs for breakfast, he sees Arthur sitting at the table, as usual, except with purple bruises wrapped around his neck. Teeth marks.

Francis' teeth marks.

Alfred has never wanted to kill someone so much.

When Arthur notices Alfred staring, he buttons up his collar to the top. He doesn't meet Alfred's eyes.

* * *

Arthur flirts with the taste of metal. He finds it ironic, how much it feels like blood; cold and smooth against his tongue.

"Do you like it?" Francis asks.

Arthur smiles around the spoon, the sharp edge cutting into the mouth of his lip.

"It's delicious," he says. "What is it, French onion?"

"Not everything I do has to be French, _mon chere_."

"But it is, isn't it?"

Francis sighs. His blonde hair is pulled back into a low bun, and he's still wearing his apron.

"Yes," Francis says, "It is."

Arthur smiles, satisfied. He spins the spoon in his fingers, admiring the glint of light off the cold steel.

"You really are like a child sometimes," Francis says.

Arthur looks up, surprised. The spoon is still in his hands.

"I didn't expect you to say that," Arthur says. "I don't consider myself to be childish."

"Where do you think Alfred gets it from?"

"We're nothing alike. That's the point."

Francis places the pot on the table with a clang. The pot sizzles against the wood.

"Dinner's ready," he says.

"You shouldn't put that on the table." Arthur tilts his head towards the soup. "It's going to leave a mark."

Francis doesn't answer. He stands with his arms crossed across his chest. Arthur is suddenly very aware of the fact that he's sitting down.

"Why are you so upset?" Arthur asks.

"Nothing's changed."

"So you just decided to be angry tonight, is that it?" Arthur stands. He is still shorter than Francis, and unconsciously, he draws his hands closer to himself. "We could have continued on, as always, but you felt like being angry."

"You're acting like I'm the unreasonable one here."

"I'm quite reasonable."

Francis lightly traces the edge of Arthur's chin with his fingers. Arthur gazes into his eyes, their connection unbroken.

"No," Francis says, "You're not."

Francis leans down to kiss him. When they pull away, Arthur speaks again.

"So. It would be reasonable for me to love you. To leave Alfred behind, to leave all of this behind." Arthur leans his forehead against Francis'. "Tell me. Are you upset because I don't love you? Because you think I care about Alfred more than you?"

"Do you?"

Arthur smiles. "Nothing's going to change, Francis. Things are going to keep continuing on, as they always have."

"And to think," Francis says, "We were the ones chosen to make the world move. And here we are, killing time."

"Progress takes time. You just don't see it yet."

"You don't care about progress."

"I care about a lot of things."

"And progress isn't one of them."

Arthur's tone is cynical, biting with frost. "Don't you know, Francis? I'm the harbinger of the future. And we're living in it. This is what it looks like."

"Alfred's a failure," Francis says, and his voice is harsh. "He's petty and he's childish and he's a reflection of yourself. End this now, before things change for the worse."

"Nothing's going to change," Arthur says, tilting his head. "I'm quite sure of it."

* * *

There is nowhere to go from here.

Alfred knows this. He finds himself staring at Arthur as he writes, the early-morning sunlight turning the tips of his hair to platinum, his lower lips jutting out in concentration.

A breakfast like any other.

Alfred hates getting up early. Really, he does. But Arthur is a morning person, and it seems that the quiet moments of the morning are the closest time they have together. Otherwise, Alfred is at practice, or Arthur is at work, or Arthur is at Francis', or Francis is with them.

Alfred fixates on the bruises on Arthur's neck. He is no stranger to jealousy, the way it clenches at his stomach, the way it bubbles up his throat. He is no stranger to the intensity, either; he imagines Francis' eyes, vacant and blue, contrasting the blood from his broken neck. Still, the fantasy brings no joy. He is only going through the motions.

There is only one way this can go. As usual. They will banter. And then, Arthur will leave, and Alfred will leave without his confession ever being understood.

"I love you."

"I know, love," Arthur says, his tongue peeking between his teeth as he writes. "You say that every morning."

The alternative is-

 _-unthinkable_. Arthur would be disgusted, horrified. It would be a-

- _disaster_. And it would never happen the way it does in Alfred's head. Arthur would never-

- _admit_ to such a thing. Even if he did love Alfred, he would never say it. Alfred would have to make the first-

- _move_ , he would have to move, he would have to stand up from the table and take Arthur's journal from his hands, close it with care, place it on the center of the table far from his reach.

"You don't understand," Alfred says, "I can't keep living like this."

He takes Arthur's chin in his hands, forcefully lifting Arthur's face to meet his eyes. Arthur's lips are tense, slightly pursed. His gaze is cool and flat, processing the heat of Alfred's fingers, the energy Alfred is almost shaking with, but not quite understanding it.

"Whatever are you doing?" Arthur begins to say, but can't quite finish, because Alfred leans down and kisses him.

Arthur's lips are cold and unmoving underneath Alfred's. Still, Alfred tightens his grip on Arthur's chin, stopping his head from turning away. When Alfred draws back, he is breathing heavily. Arthur is as still as a block of ice.

Alfred pulls him up from the chair, and Arthur stumbles forward, into Alfred's arms. His breathing is rattling, pulled through the tenseness of his ribs and the tightness of his throat. He tries to speak. He can't quite form the words.

Alfred kisses him again. Arthur kisses him back, perhaps responsively; he pulls away, walking backwards. He knocks into the chair, and it teeters to the side. Arthur is shaking his head.

"I can't do this," he says. "I can't."

"Why not?" Alfred walks towards him, and then recognizes the expression on Arthur's face.

It's fear.

Alfred stops. This isn't what he imagined. This isn't how it was supposed to go.

"I'm sorry," Alfred says. "I didn't mean… I didn't mean to scare you. I… maybe I shouldn't have."

Arthur doesn't hear Alfred's apology. Arthur has already made his way up the stairs. From Arthur's bedroom, Alfred hears the cold, final _click_ of a lock sliding into place.

* * *

 **A/N: I felt like this should have happened in chapter 3, haha. Though, I needed to build up some of the elements first!**

 **Also, the next part is a lot about Alfred and Arthur's relationship, and I'm not totally sure how I'm going to write it. I've written similar stories in the past without any problem, but I feel like I need to know their dynamic better. I hope to continue this story, but if I can't pin their dynamic down, I may have to discontinue it.**


	5. Chapter 5

Alfred is ready to act like nothing happened.

His cereal feels like ash on his tongue, and his smile pulls at his lips as he waits for Arthur to walk downstairs. He had stayed with Antonio and Gilbert last night, not explaining his need to get drunk out of his mind and flirt with girls; not wanting to admit that he had irreparably ruined everything with Arthur. He had returned early in the morning, unable to sleep, filled with an electric, frantic energy. He feels as if his bones are vibrating fast enough to splinter as Arthur languidly rubs at his eyes, bruised from lack of sleep.

"Good morning," Alfred says. His voice is unnaturally high.

Arthur looks through him. "Oh. Good morning."

Arthur sits at the table. He laces his fingers together, staring into space a few inches above Alfred's head.

"I've been thinking," Arthur says, "About yesterday."

"What?" Alfred's shoulders raise defensively. He can't look at Arthur's unreadable expression, his vague, meandering eyes. "Listen, I've just been in a weird state, okay? I don't know what I was thinking. It was impulsive. It was stupid. I shouldn't have… I shouldn't have put you in that position. Of course you would be freaked out. I shouldn't have expected anything different. Not like I was expecting anything different. Obviously." Alfred takes a deep breath. "I care about you a lot. And I don't want to ruin this, okay? I think I've ruined this. So let's just…" Alfred pauses. His head dips, and his voice becomes lower. "Let's just forget about this."

The silences presses down on Alfred's head. He imagines he can feel Arthur's eyes, boring into his skull.

Arthur speaks softly, hesitantly. "That's not what I was going to say."

Alfred squeezes his eyes shut. He feels tears prick past his eyelids.

"Do you think I need a therapist?" he asks, his voice rough. "Is that what you wanted to say? Or is it that you can't stay with me anymore, after what I did?"

"Oh, sweetheart, no."

Alfred hears Arthur push his chair in. Arthur stands behind the chair, his hands resting on the top rail, wrapped around the wood.

"I was thinking," Arthur says, "That we could make this work."

"What?"

Arthur bites his lip. "I… I'm only twenty-five. Granted, eight years older than you, but people have had successful relationships with a greater difference between them."

"But…" Alfred blinks. "Why?"

"I've told you. I care about you."

"So you like me… like that?"

"Listen to yourself talk." Arthur chuckles, but there's no humor in it. "You sound like a schoolgirl. Relationships are more complicated than that, Alfred. I like you, Alfred, of course I do. You could go so far as to say I love you. The only question is how."

"It's illegal," Alfred says, stupidly. "Being in a relationship."

"Not if I don't sleep with you." Arthur's lips quirk into a smile. "And I'm not going to sleep with you."

"No, no!" Alfred waves his hands in front of him. "That's not what I meant at all. I wasn't even thinking about that."

"So you've never thought about it?"

"I… Aaaah…" Alfred shrugs. "I don't know how to respond to that."

"With the truth, maybe." Arthur laughs at Alfred's horrified expression. "I'd be surprised if you haven't. It's only natural. Still, I was only joking about you answering me." Arthur's expression settles, and he becomes more somber. "We need communication, though. If this is going to work."

"Communication. Right." Alfred pauses. "Do you really think this is going to work?"

"Oh. It's going to work." Arthur sits back down, lacing his hands together and placing them on the table. "It has to."

* * *

Arthur feels sick.

No; he _is_ sick.

His own handwriting is slanting, accusatory, peering at him through glossy lashes of black ink.

Cynical, calculating.

All the moments he's written down, each word a part, each letter a gear, to a ticking, behemoth of a machine.

A time bomb.

And now…

Love?

 _I was thinking that we could make this work._

"That". What an extraneous, ridiculous word

He had been planning to look Alfred right in the eye, and tell him they couldn't go on like that. That of course Arthur forgave him, but a relationship between them was out of the question.

Arthur had planned out the phrase in his head:

 _I was thinking you should find someone else. Apart from me. Because I'm not right for you, Alfred; I never will be._

And then he said "that". The phrase he had so carefully constructed in his head crumbled from the unexpected word.

And he said, perhaps, what he truly believed.

 _I was thinking that we could make this work._

 _I want to make this work._

 _Because I…_

 _Love…_

 _You?_

And then a line of question marks, written in desperate, slashing handwriting. Harsh enough to slash through the paper. Harsh enough for the ink to bleed through to the other side.

* * *

They go on a date.

They had to drive out of town. Arthur feared someone from the town recognizing them; the nurse, perhaps, or one of Alfred's teachers. Looking at Arthur and saying, "Hey, aren't you his…?"

Arthur orders coffee without really thinking about it. He always orders tea. This time he orders coffee.

"You don't seem like yourself," Alfred says, once they sit down.

Arthur takes a sip. Disgusting. He should have known.

"What makes you say that?" he responds.

Alfred shrugs. He twirls his spoon in his coffee, ruining the heart-shaped foam on top into a messy spiral. They had gotten the fancy, sit-down mugs, at a fancy, sit-down shop. The chatter is muted and sophisticated around them, and volumes of poetry are rested in heaps instead of old magazines.

"I don't know," Alfred says. "You seem… tense."

"Aren't I always tense?"

"More than usual."

Arthur takes another sip, and smiles. So Alfred hadn't noticed his unusual drink choice.

Alfred hadn't noticed anything.

Apart from Arthur being _tense_. From something being _off_.

Except Arthur had always been like that. His older brother used to tease him about having a few screws loose. Alistair had sent him a psychopath test perhaps as a joke, perhaps not.

Arthur hadn't taken it.

He had been too afraid of the result.

"This is strange, huh?" Alfred says, with an awkward laugh.

Arthur is tempted to throw the cupful of hot, overly-sweetened, tar-black coffee in Alfred's face for saying something so incredibly _obvious_.

Arthur restrains himself. He adds a packetful of sugar to his drink to busy his hands. He then focuses on tearing the paper to shreds to stop them from shaking.

"You're really beautiful." Alfred is babbling, now. "I mean, I know that's out of the blue, you know, but it it's true. And it's not just the way you look, though that's a part of it. But that's shallow. It's also the way you move. The way you talk. Like… like you know something we don't, like you can control everything around you just by looking at it. I'm sure you've been told that before." Alfred laughs. "I'm sure you already know that."

"I do."

"Yeah, I guess you would."

"You're beautiful, too."

Alfred gapes a moment. Arthur watches him over the rim of his cup, but places it back down. The liquid is saccharine and thick, undrinkable.

"I wasn't expecting you to say that," Alfred says.

"It's true."

"And when you said you wanted to make this work? Was that true too?"

Arthur closes his eyes. There's a pounding in his head.

"I think so."

He feels Alfred's cheek on his hand. When he opens his eyes, he sees Alfred's face, lips parted, teeth peaking out, blue eyes focused with an intensity that is too innocent to be animalistic.

Alfred leans across the table and kisses him, softly. It lasts for a few seconds, warm and familiar and comforting, until Alfred sits back down. He keeps his hand on Arthur's face. His touch is light, as if afraid Arthur's skin will splinter like glass.

"What was that?" Arthur asks.

"Did you mind?"

"I didn't mind."

"Then what's wrong?"

"I was surprised."

"Do you not like being surprised?"

Arthur sighs.

"This doesn't feel like a surprise," Alfred says. "I mean, in some ways it was. I wasn't expecting you to say yes to me. But I feel like this has been in the making for a long time." Alfred finds Arthur's hand beneath the table. Alfred squeezes it, and smiles a strained smile. He continues: "This feels right."

Arthur looks down at their fingers, interlaced below the table.

"Yes," he says, "right."

He doesn't smile back.

* * *

Arthur tries to write down what happened.

Notes. Observations. Something tangible to make sense of things.

He can't gather together the words.

They flutter in the periphery of his vision, lost in his dimly-lighted bedroom, like important documents that had been shredded then torn to confetti, then thrown in the air to land like snow.

For the first time in years, his journal entry about Alfred is blank. He begins writing nonsense instead.

 _My favorite taste is…._

 _My favorite texture is…_

 _My favorite color is…_

Should he say the taste of Alfred's tongue? Should he say the feel of Alfred's lips? Should he say the blue of Alfred's eyes?

Because the only thing he can think of, staring at his gaunt face in the mirror, cheekbones high and eyes bruised, is the taste of metal, the texture of metal, the color of metal.

 _Dear Francis_ , he writes, _I want to kill myself._

 _Dear Francis_ , he writes, _there's definitely something wrong with me_.

 _You were trying to save me and I didn't see it._

 _Or I did see it. But I thought you were a fool._

 _You couldn't have saved me anyway_.

…

 _I never should have indulged him._

 _I'm weak for indulging him._

 _But I could never say no to him, could I?_

 _Because he's my life._

 _And I'm his._

He doesn't send Francis the letter.

He has stopped talking to Francis days ago.

Ever since he started seeing Alfred.

He's been climbing up the stairs at work so as not to cross Francis in the elevator. Afterwards, his legs are always burning, his breathing is always short. He was never one for physical exercise.

Arthur knows that if Francis saw him, it would only take a split second for Francis to register the truth; that Arthur has walked too far on a path he can't go back on.

 _Isn't that a little fucked-up?_

Arthur rips out the page instead. Tears it to shreds.

* * *

Alfred has never been happier.

Sure, Arthur may be acting a little cold, but that's nothing unusual. Besides, that will change once Arthur gets over the weirdness of this whole situation. Now that Arthur has accepted him, all Arthur has to do is get used to him.

"What are you grinning about?" Antonio asks, a stopwatch held loosely in his hand. An actual stopwatch, not a smartphone. Antonio takes his job as track captain very seriously.

Alfred smiles, hopping from foot to foot. Even after running four laps, he still feels full of energy.

"I think the love of my life loves me back," he says, unable to stop a smile from breaking out over his face.

Antonio's face goes slack for a moment. He blinks, collects himself.

"Wow," Antonio says, "I'm happy for you." Antonio pauses. He holds up the stopwatch. "Not that it matters much, in comparison, but you beat your best time."

"Really?"

"You're good. Really good." Antonio hesitates. "And it looks like you're not even trying that hard. You could definitely go to States. Maybe Nationals."

"What, worried I'm going to usurp your power?" Alfred stretches an arm across his chest. Usurp. Good word. He wonders where he heard it.

"You already had the option of becoming captain, and turned it down."

Alfred shrugs. "I wasn't really interested in that."

"What are you interested in, then?"

Alfred laughs. "Hah, breaking out the philosophical questions now, are we?"

"I mean, what do you want to do? With your life? What's your goal?" Antonio's voice drops. "Most people who are as good as you are have to dedicate themselves to it. But you… you've decided not to become captain. You don't try that hard in competitions, or even at practice. And you're still better than most of the people here."

Alfred stops moving. His hands drop to his sides, and he meets Antonio's earnest expression.

Alfred says, without really thinking about it, "Are you jealous?"

Antonio winces. "It's hard not to be, Alfred," he says. "I know that no matter how much I try, I'll never be quite as good as you. Even the role of captain… I only got it because you turned it down."

"Geez, Antonio," Alfred says, "If I could give you some of my talent, I would. Honestly, I think you deserve it more than me. You care more than me, at any rate."

Antonio sighs. A moment later, he smiles, but it's forced. "But it's not your fault. I know it isn't. You never asked to be good at running." Antonio shakes his head. "Sorry to be such a downer. You just beat your best time! We should celebrate."

Alfred pauses. He doesn't know what to say. Finally, he decides on: "You're a really good captain, Antonio. You really care about the team. You really want us to do well… I think you're doing a better job that I- than anyone else here could have done."

"Thank you, Alfred. That means a lot."

Alfred can't tell if Antonio is being sincere or not.

"So, what about you?" Antonio asks, after an unnaturally long pause. "What is it you really want?"

"I haven't quite gotten there, yet." Alfred glances at Antonio, and Antonio's expression is patient, expectant.

"I think," Alfred says at length, and it sounds as if someone else is speaking through him; someone with a cold, clipped voice, "I want to understand people. Their emotions, their desires, the things that make them tick. And to do that… I want to know what it's like to love someone. To really, truly love someone, and not just pretend."

* * *

 **A/N: I originally envisioned this part of the story being entirely from Alfred's perspective, adding on with Arthur's perspective later, but obviously, my muses don't care about my plans. (Which is probably for the best, in the long run).**

 **Heads up that the rating is going up to M from here on out. It's going to get more violent and messed up, so if that's not your cup of tea, this is probably the last chapter you want to read.**

 **Also, I haven't gotten any reviews in while, and I kind of feel like I'm putting this story out into the void. If you're so inclined, I would love to hear what you think!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Friendly reminder that the rating for this story has gone up to M.**

* * *

It is almost time for their date.

Arthur doesn't know the number, yet. He used to count them, marking the shaking tallies in his journal when he couldn't bring himself to write about them. And yet, that had been how he justified this at first; a scientific curiosity, measuring Alfred's reactions. Arthur can't bring himself to measure anything, anymore. He even stopped making tallies.

Arthur brushes his teeth. The crisp, sharp taste of mint toothpaste is overpowering, crawling its way through his nose until he can barely breathe. Accompanied by the faint taste of metal.

Arthur lowers his arm, which has begun to ache. He examines the toothbrush in the sickly fluorescent lights, noticing a tinge of pink on the white foam. He runs his tongue over his gums, feeling the ragged edges and the taste of blood.

"Arthur, come on," Alfred calls from outside. His voice is petulant, whiny. "If you don't hurry up, we're going to miss the movie."

Arthur turns on the sink, drowning out Alfred's voice. He takes a mouthful of freezing water and swirls it in his mouth. He spits it out.

"I'll be out in a moment, love," he says. "Have a little patience."

And now, for the final part.

The part he has almost run out of time for.

The taste of metal, round and cold and sharp-

"Aaaaarthur-"

Arthur sighs through the object in his mouth.

 _Click_.

Silence.

Damn.

Lost again.

"You're always on _my_ case about being late." Through the bathroom door, Arthur can visualize Alfred's lips, thrust into an exaggerated pout, wrapping around his teeth as he speaks. "And this time, _you're_ the one taking forever. We're really going to be late, you know."

Arthur puts everything away, closes the drawer. He knows Alfred will never look there; he's programmed him that way.

When Arthur exits the bathroom, his gums are still bleeding. He wonders if Alfred will taste blood when Alfred kisses him, or if the taste would have faded by then.

"What were you doing in there?" Alfred asks. He is almost obscenely excited; Alfred has been waiting for months to see this movie, some sequel to something or other. A real Hollywood blockbuster.

"Masturbating," Arthur responds coolly. He sweeps off to the car before Alfred can figure out whether or not he's joking.

* * *

They watch a movie in the dark, their hands held beneath the seats. Even though the theater is full as they watch whatever blockbuster is currently playing, Alfred feels as if there is no-one there but them, nothing there save for the feel of Arthur's fingers, cool and dry when interlaced with his. When Alfred squeezes his hand, he imagines he can feel Arthur's heartbeat through the paper-thin skin.

Arthur feels as if every member of the audience is looking at him. As if their laughs that ring out in ripples are directed at him, and not at the screen. He has no idea what movie they're watching. He's focusing so hard on the screen that his eyesight is beginning to blur. He hears a ringing in his ears, the incessant pounding of Alfred's heartbeat.

"Popcorn?" Alfred asks. With the hand that isn't holding Arthur's, he holds out the bucket. A few kernels of popcorn fall to the floor with a crinkle.

"No, thank you," Arthur says.

"Come on." Alfred lightly shakes the carton, and a few more fall out. "You never go out like this. You should take advantage of it."

Mechanically, Arthur takes a handful of popcorn. He can feel his teeth grinding together as he chews.

* * *

Alfred spins him around in a circle once they get home. Arthur's feet are light as they sweep across the floor; he can't remember the last time he's danced, and he almost expects for Alfred to waltz with him, for them to spend hours in a mad, frantic dance in Arthur's cold, sterile kitchen.

Alfred spins Arthur into his arms, and holds Arthur tight against his chest, as if afraid Arthur will disappear if he lets go.

"Did you like the movie?" Alfred asks.

Arthur leans back into Alfred's arms, sighing despite himself. He fits well there, Alfred's hands wrapped gripping his collarbones, Alfred's heavy head resting on his shoulder.

"It was all right, I guess."

"You seemed pretty focused on it."

"Did I?" Arthur feels Alfred kissing his neck. "Maybe I was thinking of something else."

"Oh?" Alfred says, lips pressed against his skin, "What were you thinking of?"

"You, I suppose."

"Really?"

Alfred steps back. Arthur turns to face him, and Alfred pulls him close again, except this time they're facing each other. Arthur's breathing becomes shaky with the heat of Alfred's body so close to his.

Alfred leans down and kisses him, hard. His hands grips at Arthur's jaw, harshly enough to hurt. Arthur kisses him back, eyes closed, head filled with cotton. He's normally so in tune with his inner monologue, but now, he drowns it out, focusing on Alfred's fingers pulling at his hair, and Alfred's other hand, which has moved from his jaw to travel to his waist.

Arthur is breathing heavily when he pulls back for air, Alfred seeming as if he doesn't need it. Alfred has gone to kissing his neck. Arthur moans, softly, despite himself.

"Alfred, love, that's enough," he says, pushing lightly at Alfred's chest. When Alfred doesn't stop, he says loudly, more insistently: "Alfred, that's _enough_."

Alfred lifts his head from Arthur's neck. His grin is sharp, and the dim lighting of the electrical appliances of the kitchen cast deep shadows across his cheekbones. Alfred rests his head against Arthur's forehead, and begins to laugh.

"What's so funny?" Arthur asks. He tries to move away, but Alfred's hands are heavy on his shoulders, holding him against the wall.

"You've got kernels stuck in your teeth," Alfred says, in between laughs.

Arthur blinks. "Well, I'm… I'm sorry?"

"No, I am." Alfred steps back, wiping at his eyes. "I'm sorry. It's just hard to take you seriously when you've got kernels stuck in your teeth."

Arthur self-consciously adjusts his clothes. He's wearing a casual getup; a black-button down, a sharp contrast from his usual white lab clothes.

"Well, I don't eat popcorn all that much."

"You sound so serious! Talking about popcorn like that." Alfred laughs a bit more, then abruptly stops. He runs his eyes down Arthur's frame. With his thumb, he caresses the marks he left on Arthur's neck. "Why did you ask me to stop?" he questions, softly.

"I… I can't do this."

Alfred kisses him, gently. Still, Arthur can feel an undercurrent of possessiveness in the lightness of his touch, as if Alfred is saying, _look, you can trust me, you can let me do anything to you, I would never hurt you_.

"Why? Why can't you do this?"

"I told you we weren't going to sleep together."

"This isn't sleeping together."

"No. But it's close."

"And you can't sleep with me, can you?" Alfred smirks. He's aware of how attractive he looks, at the muscles on his arms, at his chiseled jawbone. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his voice low. "Because that would just be the _worst_."

"I can't do this, Alfred. I just _can't_."

"Can't, or shouldn't?" Alfred cups Arthur's cheek in his hand, still making sure to keep his touch light. Arthur leans into Alfred's touch and breathes out.

"Because," Alfred says, "From my perspective, this is what you want. But you're holding back. For whatever stupid reason, you're holding back."

"I'm eight years old than you. That's not a stupid reason."

"You said it yourself. Relationships like this can work."

"Some, maybe." Arthur abruptly turns his head away. "But not ours."

Alfred places his hand on his hips. He straightens, slightly puffing out his chest.

"We can make it work, Arthur," Alfred says. "Why fight it? If it's what you want, why fight it?"

"I…"

"You don't have a reason, do you?" Alfred presses himself against Arthur. "If you have a reason, then say it to me." Alfred moves his head closer to Arthur's ear. "Go on, Arthur. I'm listening. What's your reason?"

Arthur's lips are moving. He's trying to form words, but he can't string them together.

"This is what you want, isn't it?" Alfred waits for a response, but doesn't hear one. "If it is, then kiss me, Arthur." Alfred's lips are so close. Perfectly formed, and an appealing, delicate shade of pink. "Kiss me, and we can move past this."

Arthur hesitates. He has never before in his life felt so small, faced by such a choice. When leans closer to Alfred, he feels as if he has decided to fall forwards off a cliff, into the abyss.

Arthur leans forward, and kisses him.

* * *

Arthur can't sleep, and he doesn't want to pretend to. Nestled in Alfred's arms, he ponders the difference between _making love_ and _fucking_. The act of making something versus just an action. He wonders if what they did that night has any productive result, but in his heart, he already knows.

Arthur feels Alfred sigh, Alfred's lips resting against his shoulder. Even though tonight is the first night Alfred has kissed him there, the position already feels familiar.

"You're so still," Alfred mumbles, his words muffled behind Arthur's skin. "Why are you lying so still? It's creepy."

"Would you rather I kicked you out of the bed, love?"

"No."

Arthur turns his head. He's planning to kiss Alfred, but when faced with the possibility, it's too much effort. Alfred shifts from under Arthur, re-positions himself besides Arthur, and kisses Arthur instead.

"That was a good thing, right?" Alfred says, once they pull apart. "You're happy, right? I mean, you don't… you don't regret this?"

Arthur caresses Alfred's cheek. "Now, what would make you ask that?"

"You were… kind of unsure, before." Alfred shifts in the bed, adjusting the covers around him. "I mean, you wanted this, right?"

"You were quite insistent, love."

"But I didn't…" Alfred's voice breaks. "I didn't force you into it, did I?"

His eyes are open, earnest, trembling with unshed tears. Arthur sighs, and brushes Alfred's bangs away from his damp forehead.

"I'm a rational adult," Arthur says. "I'm capable of making my own decisions."

"Good." Alfred leans back into the pillows, breathing out a long, shaking breath. When he smiles, it breaks through his previous gloom, and Arthur finds it difficult to reconcile his sudden shifts in tone. "I want this to work, Arthur. I want _us_ to work."

"And how about you?" Arthur's voice is quiet. He wants to reach over and touch Alfred, but his hands are immobile, frozen still. "How do you feel? About all this?"

Arthur's eyes are closed. He can't bear to look at Alfred's face.

"Me?" Alfred's tone is light, almost blinding, in its honesty. "I'm so happy I feel like I could explode."

* * *

When Arthur gets up from the bed, he feels Alfred's hand grip his wrist.

"Where are you going?" Alfred's eyes glow almost neon in the dark. He has become heavy, oppressive, in the span of a second.

Arthur shakes him off, and tries to shake off his fear. Yet his fear has pervaded too deep into his skin; a melancholy, a sickness, that has crumbled his skin, softened his bones, turned him almost to mush.

"I'm going to get water," Arthur says, and walks to the bathroom.

* * *

He does not look at himself in the mirror, as taunting and grotesque as it may be, conveniently placed before the sink. He is already familiar with the bags under his eyes, the split ends of his hair, the redness of his gums. His hands shake as he opens the drawer and puts the object in his mouth, but they don't waver.

He's sick of playing games.

He's going to keep trying until he wins.

 _Click-click-click-click-click_.

Boom.

* * *

Alfred hears the gunshot when he's still lying in Arthur's bed.

"Arthur?" he says. His hair is sticking up, the pillowcase making creases of red against his skin. He must have fallen asleep. "Arthur, what was that?"

He sits up from the bed, shivering at the chilled floor against his bare feet. Fumbling, he puts on his boxers. His throat is dry and thick. He wishes he had a glass of water.

He stands in front of the bathroom door. He doesn't knock; not yet.

"I think I had a bad dream," he says. "I must have fallen asleep. I heard a weird noise." He pauses, cocks his head. "Arthur, are you in there?"

He jiggles the doorknob. It's locked.

"Arthur, I know you're in there." His voice is high and reedy. He shivers, his chest coated in cold sweat. "The door is locked. You _have_ to be in there."

Alfred pulls at the doorknob, gritting his teeth. "Come on, Arthur, this isn't funny anymore." He leans against the door. "If you don't open it, I'm going to kick it down."

He waits a moment. "Fine," he says, "if that's how you're gonna be."

He leans back, kicks the door at full force. The reinforced steel sends a wave of shock down his leg. He hops on his good foot, hissing in pain.

" _Shit_ ," he says. "Shit shit shit shit _shit_."

He runs shoulder-first into the door. Again. And again. His shoulder hurts, but he doesn't care. Even with the way he's throwing his whole weight against the door, he can't make a dent.

He's still slamming against the door when he hears the front door open.

The neighbors had heard all the commotion. They had called the cops.

* * *

 **A/N: I can't tell if this story escalated quickly or slowly. Probably slowly? Either way, there's going to be quite a shift from here-on it, and I'm looking forwards to writing it. Though, if you're frustrated about what happened to Arthur, don't worry; his presence is still going to play an important role, even though he's dead.**


End file.
